got bubble wrap around my heart
by thexlittlexlisa
Summary: And so, she placed her hand in his, twirled the flowing skirts of her dress and stepped. — Oneshot.


**got bubble wrap around my heart_  
_****_  
_**_love me, __because love doesn't exist, and i have tried everything that does._  
._  
_

He was like a ghost that couldn't be grasped and moved along smooth water.

And then, he saw her. And smiled. And thought that (_at last_) he had found something of interest.

She said nothing at first, judged him with cold, calculating (shrewdly lit) eyes. (She decreased his games as chauvinistic and pretentious and other long-winded, smart-sounding words.) So, he tried harder.

"All the more to get your attention."

(He said this so often even _he_ thought it was taking effect.)

* * *

Much to his surprise (he lied, he expected that from her) Caroline rejected him more than he could count. (it was all a matter of persuasion, given the time and chance.)

She turned on her heels and exited in a confident flurry. And he could barely catch the scent of her vanilla perfume hanging in the air. And thought: _what an interesting girl_.

* * *

She called herself Hayley and expected him to remember it.

(He did, but never addressed her by that.)

She sighed and gestured for him to follow.

(He did, because it was the formal thing to do.)

* * *

That night, they had sex (because there was no other way to put it, no subtle euphemism, no phony-baloney).

And no subterfuge, no foreplay, none of that.

It was sex.

And Hayley was used to just-sex (she thought) but not romance. That was different, a whole, unconquered terrain. And she was not ready (yet, not that night).

So, they had sex, and Klaus was repulsive—like she thought. And she was passionate, no inhibitions, a wolf—like he thought.

And like some disenchanted slut and rejected prince, they replayed that night over and over and over again to embed the sounds and rushes study-deep in their heads.

* * *

Klaus vowed to protect her. She laughed (it was the _child_, she noted).

Hayley was a werewolf and she was not in need of protection (especially from petty, insignificant, _weak_ hybrids).

She said as much. And let him push her away. It was better. Hayley did not ever love (it meant, she was afraid of falling _in_ love).

But when he asked her to dance—demanded—she agreed. It came as a shock but a happy one. And sometimes, even Hayley liked to let her guard down. Because sometimes, even the werewolf couldn't live vicariously.

For the masquerade, they dressed her beautifully (to show her off, she understood). Stuffed with sweetness and girliness and correctness, she could hardly protest.

And so, she placed her hand in his, twirled the flowing skirts of her dress and stepped.

Slow and direct, the waltz continued.

She was not graceful but did not fall either. Klaus was an excellent partner, she admitted.

And no one noticed (who they really were).

In a masquerade, the mask was all that was essential.

* * *

Hayley stroked her stomach every day like how some women brushed their hair. It became a ritual for her, _one two three…a hundred, done_. She whispered and mumbled (mumbo-jumbo, humbled) to her unborn child. Told it her love, of her devotion and _sym_pathy and under_stan_ding.

(It rolled around in her belly, kicking at the softened, pulled-tight flesh, yearning to spring out.)

She winced but patted it softly. _It was okay_.

And then the screams began, contractions started (burning, blood and bile blending, emerging, went around like shocks from a gun). Hayley hunched over, gagging (vomited), and her insides ripped out.

It was nightmarish.

She convulsed, thinking she was going crazy from the pain or something else.

And then, the baby was born. Arms and legs all sticky out, skinny and damped with blood-juice.

The baby wailed in her arms, and Hayley smiled. _It was a boy_. He reached up and yanked harshly on a tangle of her hair, still matted and damped. She sighed and embraced him tightly, gathered him up in her wispy arms and kissed his cheeks (he laughed).

* * *

Sometimes, he saw her as she passed through the hallway. Her eyes were always glazed over and startled (the child wiggling in her arms). With eyes of emerald and curls of Mahogany, long and hanging it looked like vines on the fence.

And once she even smiled.

It was so different, so uncharacteristic, so _tellingly_ pretty and unlike her.

* * *

"You are of no use anymore," Klaus said.

She widened her eyes. _Oh? _—sarcasm— "Thanks."

"You're free to go."

And Hayley quickly left (but turned around one last time, caught him shuffling paintings repetitively—delaying). Hayley smiled.

He did not.

* * *

Freedom was absurd, she concluded.

(The world was absurd.)

* * *

"Marcel?"

New Orleans had a powerful tug and before Hayley knew it, the bullet went in (it was _almost_ as painful as a knife.)

* * *

Except for his miscalculation, everything went splendidly. For a moment, she thought she saw heaven. Or maybe it was hell, from the garish reds and dancing yellowy flames.

And then, Klaus pulled her back alive again—or maybe she wasn't even dead from the start.

Hayley had no energy to dig further and instead, dug her sharp, slender fingers into his arms. While he held her, she rocked to sleep. And the tears still would not come.

Maybe she was broken and splintered after all.

* * *

Freedom was not about choice—_that_ she got.

(The world was choice less.)

* * *

Rebekah was like a surrogate mother, and like all mothers warned her of all the dangers and disasters that would come. She rambled off a million and one lists as premonitions. Her eyes glistened (teary-eyed) and beat into her head:

_Leave_. (again)

Hayley did not. She liked pretending to be a real queen far too much.

* * *

They met in secret, in private, in partially lit rendezvous that waned before morning. Always.

(It was safer like that, he said.)

They kissed and embraced and departed.

(Hayley sighed. For now, this would suffice.)

* * *

She never thought Marcel would betray her. Or them. He was supposed to be their friend. But when he personally shot the bullet straight into her skin, that was when she finally woke up.

The Originals raised and after an eternal time New Orleans was retrieved back.

Marcel fell, desperate and grasping for the ledge.

Hayley looked on, steely and stern and remorseless.

* * *

_We were the leaders._  
Like humans, strung monsters  
New Orleans was built again  
—Only on the _verge_ of ruin.

"We present King Niklaus and Queen Hayley!"

* * *

**A/N:** Just four things. Out of character, for my sister, it makes no sense and I don't ship it.


End file.
